


Eton Mess

by Dryad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, Family, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 22:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3706065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A book of recipes, with notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eton Mess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unovis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Five Things Sherlock Ate That Agreed with Him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/578629) by [Unovis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis). 



> Written for Sherlock Remix, a remix of Unovis' excellent story "Five Things Sherlock Ate That Agreed With Him".
> 
> Go read, I'll wait.

**~*~  
** The Lobster  
~*~ 

It wasn't pleasant. _That_ side of the family rarely was. But then, there was no help for it. The facts were these:

Mercutio was still angry, as were May, Charlotte, and of course, her own husband. The atmosphere at the service was so difficult she chose to stay behind in her room. Bad enough they couldn't resolve their difference before the memorial. Doing it over a dinner table - and there was no question the dinner was going to be an exercise in misery - was inexcusable. 

The corpse - the body - hours later, when Mycroft knocked on the door to tell her what Mercutio had said, and how Sherlock had eaten the lobster, and she knew, she _knew_ exactly what had happened.

It was so clear to her, the kind of person Sherlock was. Mathematically impossible for anyone like him to have ever been born before. Grandmere had agreed, had brought them to holiday at the family home in France until her death. After that, Sherlock refused to go, and she left him to his own devices while she and Mycroft summered at the Chateau de la Montagne.

"What were you thinking?" she demanded, sitting up and instantly regretting it as waves of pain sloshed from side to side in her skull. She closed one eye in a pathetic attempt to keep to tamp down the pounding, while still watching his reaction. 

Shrugging off his dinner jacket, Edmund dismissed her anger. "Merc learned a lesson tonight, I believe. He'll not keep on against Sherlock."

"Or Mycroft?"

"Or Mycroft," he repeated, putting his jacket on a hanger and placing it in the wardrobe. He sat on the vanity's chair to untie his shoes. "The point has been made."

That what, they were now equal in children? That poor Launcelot had died because of Mercutio's neglect? 

Edmund straightened. "Violet. You're not _really_ concerned with Merc's feelings. You can't stand the man."

Because she could see his influence over Mycroft, and she hated it. A fact Edmund could never see, for some reason. Or rather, a fact he could not see for he was blind to his own dislike of his brother. "I won't have it, Edmund. I won't have him ruining Sherlock," _as well_ , she didn't add.

"You should lie down and get some rest. Sherlock will be a terror soon enough."

Wincing at the pounding in her head, Violet did as commanded. She kept one eye open, for he was liable to jostle the bed or turn the tv on too loud or do something that would otherwise further enrage her.

 

**~*~  
** The Piglet  
~*~ 

The boy had gone wrong in the womb, Siger was sure of it. Unnatural, at the very least, with that hair and those eyes, the way he looked at everyone, assessing, thinking, judging. Siger leaned against the fence, clamped his pipe tightly between his teeth. He'd forgotten to bring a light for the damned thing, and hell if he was going back inside the house after, after Edmund's wretched youngster had all but accused him of torture. 

Not in so many words, no, but the implication was clear in Sherlock's gaze at dinner. Strange child. 

At least the lack of coal would make him less visible in the gloaming. How Violet could stand it was beyond his ken. The house, a small cottage, the grounds, parsimonious. The land was all very pretty in the daylight, not a patch on the mountains at his own retreat, obviously. Geneva and home called to Siger strongly. There, he could have his kirsch before a dinner of trout. Freshly caught, of course. And a slice of cake, perhaps, for after. A rare indulgence, but watching Mycroft hunger after any sweet had given Siger a taste for it himself, even though Mycroft never ate the desserts presented at table.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he almost missed the whisper of leather on the flagstone behind him. He called out, "Don't bother."

"You don't even know what I was going to say," answered Charlotte, coming up to stand quietly next to him.

He glanced at her, but was unable to tell much from her expression in the rapidly oncoming twilight. "You're going to tell me I'm too hard on them, that they're simply different due to the nature of their family, that they're very bright and therefore deserve due consideration."

She turned towards him then, her lips pursed in disappointment. "I don't understand why you do it, Siger. This is neither a battle nor a war you can win."

"I'm not interested in winning anything."

"Of course you are, it's your whole life. Papa raised all of you to compete, and you hate how much Sherlock refuses to play the family game."

Siger shifted away from her. "Father loved you the most," he snapped, before he could reign himself in to studied disinterest.

"I was the only girl, and the youngest. I was never expected to be anything other than marriage material. You four, on the other hand…well. Only Valentine has managed to escape your nonsense."

With a shake of his head, Siger stepped away from her even further. She had no idea what she was talking about. She had no _idea_ what it had been like before her arrival. Father had been…Siger knew not all fathers were like him, yet had never considered that this might be a bad thing until university, where staying with friends during their term breaks and seeing how they interacted with their families had been a revelation. A strong revelation, in fact, arming him with the certainty that Father was a law unto himself, and thus worthy neither of Siger's consideration nor his contempt. 

"Are you going to tell me why you did it?"

"Why?" Siger shrugged. "Why not?" He took his pipe and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. "He enjoys taking things apart."

"Call it what you like, it was a cruel thing to do," she said, looking back towards the house. "Reminded me of Papa, a little bit."

He side-eyed her. As if she could guilt him into apologizing to Sherlock. Ridiculous. An obscene suggestion. Sherlock was a child, for god's sakes.

 

**~*~  
** Rice Pudding  
~*~ 

Violet read the telegram once more, then folded it and put it underneath the central aisle of her jewelry box. The cream paper was a relief against the red of the box's velvet lining. Before replacing the aisle and closing the mirrored lid, she found herself looking at her own reflection. 

Hmm. 

For a long moment she wondered if she should fake feeling something, just so outsiders could say that they had done their duty by the grieving widow. Then again, she didn't particularly care what others thought. And anyone who had known them, would be able to see right through the lie.

"Come," she called to the single knock on the door. "Yes?"

Perkins deferentially bobbed her grey-haired head before entering the _[cabinet de toilette](http://www.degournay.com/images/wf_chinoiserie/47_large.jpg)_. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her mouth downturned in either despair or disapproval, Violet wasn't quite sure. Such a funny creature, Edmund's Perkins, in her old fashioned tweed wool suit in camel, support stockings, chunky black shoes. The kind of outfit a secretary might have worn in the 1920s. A professional woman's suit, rather like Miss Marple in all those tv dramas Violet used to watch when she wasn't supposed to. Had it started as affectation? Or perhaps all Perkins could afford, even after all these years? No, the more delicious idea; Perkins actually had a full wardrobe of modern clothing at her home, and only wore the suits when working in the office with -

"What is this?" Violet took the proffered padded envelope with only the slightest of flinches.

"From the solicitors, ma'am. Couriered over."

"Thank you," Violet murmured, turning away from Perkins to sit at the window seat. Inside were papers. She skimmed them, stored the relevant passages in her mind garden. It was as she had thought, yet had never discussed with Edmund. She had all of the physical estate with the monies to attend to it therein. One quarter of what was in the bank, fifty percent split evenly between Mycroft and Sherlock, fifteen percent to various underlings, ten percent to - to - yes. Another unasked question answered. 

Later on, when she changed into her night dress, she would find the papers on the floor, accordianed as if by someone in a rage. She would smooth them out on her knee, put them back into their envelope, and place it carefully on the vanity so she would find them again in the morning.

In the morning she dressed in black, because she liked black. Black was her own, and now was as good an occasion as any. And it wasn't as if Edmund was there to criticise anymore. If anything, she had worn every other color instead, even her namesake. Inside the wardrobes were long skirts and loose trousers in linen and fine cotton, jumpers in cashmere, paisley pashminas in wool so exquisite the entirety of the scarf could be drawn through a wedding ring with room to spare.

But looking at her clothing would solve nothing. She spent the morning in Edmund's home office, ostensibly going through his papers to find the bits and pieces he had forgotten. By lunchtime she had found three accounts otherwise unlisted in the solicitors paperwork, and a little black book with more names than she had expected. The odd thing was that every now and again she would find herself sitting still at his desk, lost in memory.

And so the days passed, until two months had gone by and Violet determined the time was right for non-familial visitors to come to the house. She was surprisingly glad to see the mirrors uncovered, and shocked herself one morning by dressing entirely in shades of blue. A long-sleeved blouse in pale morning sky, a skirt the color of twilight, a headband in Robin's Egg with glittery black paisleys, a gift from Charlotte's daughter Esme, who was a bit touched in the head.

This year they were having a classic English summer; warm, breezy, plenty of sunshine between periods of drenching rain. She had actually attended the Wimbledon final without fear of getting soaked! Of course she had been seen, that was the whole point. Vivianne and Carlos had come over to her box, and from there on in everyone else had followed; Karen, Elaine, Lady Poppy Smalls and Lord Frederick, the Sutherland boys, even Mr. Wisniewski, who had shrunken even further in his dotage. Though mostly everyone was polite, she could still see the stares and whispers.

The summer rolled along, and when both Sherlock and Mycroft were home - at the same time, a rare occasion - she decided to cook. It was not her thing, cooking. When she remembered to do so she enjoyed her food, but Sherlock was definitely too thin. One glance was all it took to discover the reason why, though he did his best to hide-not hide what he was doing. She was his mother, not a fool. What on earth had possessed him to think he could fool her was, well, it was the drugs talking, wasn't it?

And speaking of talking - "I want you to apologize to Mycroft," she said, sweeping a butter knife across the top of Grandmere's Saint-Cloud teacup to measure the rice. A few grains spilled onto the counter and then the floor, as always. She would have to remember to sweep them up, after. In to the pot went the rice, now for the milk. "He was fond of that girl and you were horrid to her."

"She's a grasping little climber with breast implants. She lied about - "

She poured the milk into the jug until it reached the appropriate level, some five teacups worth. "Yes, dear, so you informed us. Over lunch."

"Over luncheon at our table. In our house. Father wouldn't have let her through the door."

Violet shook her head slightly. "Your father was also fond of grasping little climbers. And breasts," She fought to rein in her irritation, turned the knob on the stove to adjust the flame. "You were rude to your brother, to his guest, and to me. You were rude to assume you knew more than anyone else at that table, and foolish to think that neither Mycroft nor I saw that - saw her," she turned to face him, unable to keep the anger inside. "Oh, really, Sherlock!"

"What? She saw her ill-considered interest in the much more attractive, younger brother? The one alas without the breast fixation? The one who said what no one else would. The one who is being rewarded with pudding."

"Apologize," she repeated, stirring the mixture too hard and splattering the stove with hot milk. "Pudding in the pot is not pudding in the dish."

"I'm sorry I embarrassed you," said Sherlock softly. After a moment he continued. "I'm sorry I came home."

Oh for - he was going to mangle that entire bowl of raisins. She reached across the table and pulled the bowl away from him. "And where else would you go? Where in the wide, wicked world would this terrible son of mine lay his head?"

"On a cold, cold slab in the mortuary."

No, neither of them were ever going to consider their father in anything less than a cold light, despite her attempts to the contrary. Although admittedly, she hadn't tried very hard.

"When you said Father liked…"

"Do you miss him?" she interrupted, scattering raisins across the rice. She stirred once and then poured the mix into the baking dish. A quick check proved that she had already turned on the oven. Sometimes she forgot.

"Dead is dead," he answered.

The tone of his voice - yes. At the heart of it - Violet closed the oven door and stepped around the table to kiss his cheek before he had the chance to figure out what she was going to do, rice crunching under her shoes. She handed him the still dripping spoon and slid onto her chair. She said, "He would have missed you dreadfully."

And didn't add that her very being would crack in half if anything happened to Sherlock. "Now, tell me why you're home mid-term."

 

**~*~  
** Risotto  
~*~ 

The kid was a skinny thing surrounded by broken glass and used condoms, crumpled crisp packets and whatever the hell was half in, half out of that dark puddle in the center of the alley. Letting the door hit his backside, Angelo turned to go back inside, sighed heavily, rubbed his forehead. Aogusta would kill him if he didn't do what was right, even if it made him late for Flavia's birthday brunch.

Angelo grabbed the kid by one arm. "Come on, up."

The kid unfolded until he was taller than Angelo. Still skinny, though, and fish belly pale. His stained beige tee shirt was two sizes too small on his lanky frame, and under the mop of inky hair were colorless eyes and a bruised face.

Shit.

It was less of a struggle to bring him inside than he initially thought. The boy - and for all of his height, he _was_ clearly just a boy - was docile, stumbling along next to Angelo while he took him through the storage room into the kitchen. 

In the better light it was easy to see just how filthy the kid was. Angelo sniffed and sat him on the stool next to the wet sink. Not the type of thing that should happen in a kitchen. Time for that disgusting shirt to go, no point in even trying to save it. Too bad he couldn't just pull the hose attachment over and spray him clean, but that would be going too far. Eh, might as well take it all off. Urging the kid to his feet once more, he undid the bit of cord masquerading as the kid's belt and let the too big trousers fall to the floor. He hesitated for a brief moment, then shook his head and pulled the cleaner-than-expected pants down as well, ignoring the spots of fresh blood in the gussett. "Sit."

Impossibly, the kid paled even further and he swallowed convulsively. Grabbing a clean kitchen towel, Angelo thoroughly wet it, wrung it to get some of the excess water out. Wiping the kid's face, he said, "You going to be sick? Head up."

"You saved me?" asked the boy, pushing away the towel.

Surprised, Angelo nodded. "A bit."

"I'm not concussed."

A deep, pleasant voice. Posh accent. Belied the needle marks, the ribs standing proud, the recent cigarette burn on the shoulder, the knife cut on the side. The empurpling finger marks on the upper arms. The others on his hips. Angelo nodded to himself, continued wiping the kid down. "That was Tonno. You buy from Tonno, you're a fool."

"Yes thank you. I wasn't buying."

Angelo raised an eyebrow. "Course not. Selling? Who'd buy you? Bag of bones, you wouldn't make soup."

The boy scowled, leaned over, or possibly did a very controlled fall, Angelo wasn't really sure, and started pawing through the filthy clothing on the floor. "Where's my wallet?"

"Ask Tonno. Your shoes are drying by the oven. When did you last eat?"

"Do I look like I eat?"

Angelo folded his arms and frowned. The boy couldn't be allowed to leave in his current state. Decision made, he went to the locker by the staff toilet and grabbed Jake's spare trousers and chef's coat, which had clearly been over bleached. Angelo shook his head. He was going to have to speak to Jake about Gemma's laundry habits _again_. Onyede's headaches or more importantly, his complaining about the strong smell of bleach which created his headaches, were driving them all spare. 

Back in the kitchen, the boy was staring dully at the floor, a fine all over body tremble shifting into deep shudders even as Angelo watched. He dropped the clothes into the boy's lap, then waved towards the other door. "Go on, toilet's through there."

He kept a close eye on the kid, however he managed to stumble his way to the bathroom. The chest freezer in hallway rattled off just in time for Angelo to hear the lock being engaged on the door. Couldn't blame him. 

Well. Regardless of what the kid was doing, Angelo still had prep to do. Before doing anything else, he put a pot of broth on the stove. Then he retrieved the tray of carrots from the walk in, brought them to the counter and started slicing. 

That boy. Angelo shook his head. The old man who had been stabbed. The whole street knew what the kid had done. 

"What do you want?"

Angelo looked over his shoulder. The kid had washed up as best he could, which only served to make him look even worse, somehow. "The name's Angelo, Angelo Marino. Sit before you fall. I'll get you something to eat. Keep it down and I'll get you something better."

Broth delivered into shaking hands, Angelo made a strategic retreat back to the counter and sliced more carrots. Long minutes passed in silence apart from the strike of knife against chopping board. When he deemed it safe, he glanced back and yes, the kid had some color to his cheeks. Excellent.

"Ready for more?" Without waiting for a reply he took the risotto from the oven. Maria wouldn't be best pleased, yet what else could Angelo do? It seemed that this was a day to upset everyone he knew, and possibly more he couldn't think of off the top of his head. Besides, there was plenty to serve customers. Handing the bowl to the boy, he said, "Don't drop it. Eat."

Watching the kid - all right, he was a young man, really - watching his eyes widen after the first spoonful made it worth all the trouble Angelo was going to be in. 

"I know you," he said, after the kid had inhaled the risotto. He scooped another helping in, sprinkled a smidgeon more parmesan and a pinch of black pepper on top, handed it back. "My mama knows you. The street knows you. You found the knife."

Angelo would never mention whether or not he had been involved in the death of the second suspect, the man who had actually done the killing in the first place. Poor Tinley, shocked over his arrest. Angelo wasn't sure Tinley was ever going to recover. He still came in the restaurant, meek as a mouse, looking stunned and grateful that people wanted to know him. Which was silly, the police had gotten it wrong, everyone knew that. Tinley was about as violent as a newly lain egg.

Carver, though. An ugly little man who had come to a well deserved, very violent death. And as had been proven by a certain young man who frequented the neighborhood, guilty of Mr. Simmons' murder. "You like the risotto?"

The young man nodded. "My mother's is better."

Angelo nodded sagely. "Mama's always is."

 

**~*~  
** John  
~*~ 

Mycroft shifted his umbrella from one hand to the other. Though he kept his eyes on the workers as they shoveled dirt back over the grave, he could feel John Watson's frustration, not only with the question Mycroft had asked of him, but with the steady rain. He felt a frisson of fond amusement at John's refusal to step under his umbrella. 

"So we're clear, friends. Friends being people who…like you? Spend time with you, do favors, watch your back, enjoy talking to you?"

Mycroft twitched an eyebrow. "Not always. Not inclusively, not mutually. Not…entirely."

"All right, all right. Definition deferred. But you did ask how many friends I thought he had, as if there were none."

"In his mind, certainly."

John frowned. "But there are…he has friends? People who care for him, care _about_ him. Lestrade. Mike. Molly. Even Angelo. Angelo's mother asks his, after _your_ mother, for Christ's sake!"

Yes, well. Mycroft managed not to grimace. If Anthea were with them, she would have done something to draw his attention away from John's words. Once again, Mycroft wished Mummy would, that she would - but she wouldn't. He was fairly sure she was capable of it, that she understood his point of view and perhaps, to a degree, even commiserated with them. Yet never would she set his mind at ease. He could not fathom why, and there were times when that little fact made him obsess over every Family book in his mind library.

"He introduced me as his friend. Once."

Really? "Did he? And what did you say to that?"

"Mrs. Hudson. She dotes on him."

Of course she did. "And other than yourself, whom has he called 'friend'?"

"His skull," John said, with the air of someone who was being tested and found wanting, although only by himself this time around.

Again, Mycroft was amused. He looked at John as Sherlock stepped close behind the shorter man. Ah, of course. Sherlock wasn't wrong, though. Mycroft was a threat to John, still. The question was, did John realize it, too?

"You're talking about me. How predictable. You _make_ a funeral, Mycroft."

"No one would object if you left," said Mycroft, turning slightly to face them both. "Did you really tell John that human skull you keep was your only friend?"

"I never said 'only'," John protested. "Who are they burying anyway? You never said, Sherlock, just that it was an uncle. One you've mentioned?"

"Mercutio," answered Sherlock, glancing at Mycroft.

They shared a mutual satisfaction in this account. 

"The last of them. Though May could marry again, she seems to like it."

The last, indeed. Mycroft gave the grave one last look before heading down the walk that led to the street. Besides Mummy and May, the rest were gone. And good riddance to the lot. Now it would be up to him and Sherlock (and John), plus Anthea and the other cousins, and of course any of the children. The half-siblings Mummy never talked about, St.John Perkins and his twin sister, Lettice, were coming along quite nicely. Unfortunately they were the best of that set, the ones Father had gotten upon other women. Maybe that was because Father had seen fit to visit Perkins on the odd occasion. As far as he was aware, St.John and Lettice were the only ones Father had ever even met. 

He kept an eye on all of them, of course. If they were fit for purpose he would bring them in, train them in some function or another. And they would never know who their father was, so long as Sherlock was kept out of their presence. Occasionally Mycroft was tempted to let Sherlock loose amongst them, just to see what would happen. Thus far he had managed to rein himself in. On the bad days, it was a close call.

The bad days arrived with increasing certainty, now, and turned his mind to finding someone upon whom to get offspring. He was getting to the age where direct heirs were necessary. Fieldwork - _wetwork_ \- was one thing, 'office' work quite another. He was going to have to broach the subject with Anthea. She was suitable, and perhaps even amenable to the idea. After being regaled with many tales of her sister's children, it appeared that she rather liked children, which was a plus.

"Is there anyone I should meet?" asked John when they had passed through the gate. He looked nervous at the idea.

Mycroft could only agree, it wasn't pleasant. _That_ side of the family rarely was.

"We needn't stay," said Sherlock.

"Then why did you come?" said Mycroft, wincing at the flare of pain in his gut. How could something hurt so much that was psychosomatic? He had to admit to himself that he felt a little more understanding of John Watson these days. 

Walking away, he heard John laugh. The sound was carefree, and for a microsecond he wished the weight of responsibility hung around someone else's shoulders. That, however, was not who he was, or how he had been brought up. The burden was his, a yoke he had gladly accepted at the time, even though he had not known how heavy it would be. 

For now, there was the car, and Anthea inside of it, and they would go off to the service and see Mummy and May and the rest of the cousins and it would be over until the next time.

**~*~**

5\. To make sugar skulls, you will need meringue powder, powdered sugar, water, a skull mold. For decorations, you will also need piping bags and food coloring. Do not skip the meringue powder!

4\. Hot stock is the most important aspect of making risotto. Hot stock, and butter, and finely chopped onions. Possibly a hint of garlic. Fresh herbs are a must, as is salt and pepper, and neither be abstemious nor bountiful with the cheese. You do not want to serve a plate of hot cheese with pepper and some rice.

3\. Take a pound of sugar and mix it fine with rice of the same, and saffron and raisins and sweet butter, and milk of almond. Stir in a shallow dish and bake in a low oven until done.

2\. After the meal is consumed, use the bones to make stock with peppercorns and vinegar. Cook for 9-24 hours. Use as you would for chicken or beef.

1\. Though not poisonous, various parts of the lobster are unpleasant and possibly unsafe to eat. These include the stomach sac, the liver, also known as the 'tomally', and the intestine.

(Before pudding comes dinner, comes danger, comes death) 

**~*~**


End file.
